by Shandi Boyes
For the first time in over four years, a single tear wets my cheek.
Chapter 11
Hawke
I take the stairs two at a time, my mind as scrambled as my stomach. I can’t believe I just did that. I kissed a woman I’ve known twenty-four hours in the sunroom of my deceased wife’s family home. I knew I should have never came back to this town. All I keep doing is making one stupid mistake after another. I just wanted a night. One lousy night of pretending to be someone else. To act impulsively instead of cautiously. To be a man with nothing but his libido to take care of. This may make me sound like an ass, but Gemma gave me that. She freed me from the torment weighing down my chest and returned me back to the man I was before I lost everything. For hours, I truly forgot. Nothing was on my mind. Nothing but fulfilling the pleas of a beautiful blonde with tormented green eyes.
Last night was a stark contradiction to the way my normally unmoving trysts go. Usually, I’d do anything I could to keep the physical connection to a bare minimum, which is a ridiculous notion considering the event I’m undertaking. This will make me sound like an asshole, but it’s the truth. The only attention I typically give my bed companions is trying to work out their similarities to Jorgie. Before Gemma, I hadn’t slept with a woman whose hair wasn’t the shade of a storm filled sky or whose eyes weren’t the color of the ocean. It is easier to pretend I’m reliving memories when the person I’m using to recreate them looks like Jorgie. It might make me sound sick and twisted, but when you're a man living in the shadow of what your life used to be, sick and twisted is the least of your worries.
Although guilt lingered in the back of my mind the entire time, last night was the first time I didn’t shut down all emotions and solely concentrate on myself. I wanted Gemma’s attention. No matter how much I try to deny it, the more attention she gave me, the more I wanted. I fucking craved it. I know part of the reason I so desperately wanted her devotion was because she doesn’t look at me like everyone else, but only today do I realize that’s not the only reason. Gemma sees past the mask I wear warning others to stay away. She sees the man I’ve tried to bury with my family five years ago. Every glance she gave me last night filled me with hope that I haven’t been sentenced to a life of misery. That I have more life left to live than just striving to recapture memories that will never fully fade. Don’t get me wrong, last night, guilt meddled with my composure, but unbridled lust kept it to a bare minimum.
It wasn’t until this morning when the midmorning sun snuck into Gemma’s hotel room did guilt make itself comfy in the area my heart used to belong. I laid in the bed next to Gemma for what felt like hours, but was actually minutes, trying to rationalize with myself that I had no reason to feel guilty. It wasn’t my choice to be a widower, and it wasn’t my choice to live my life without Jorgie. Any rationalization I made only angered me more. I may not have chosen to live without Jorgie, but she didn’t choose to die either.
When the remorse became too much for me to handle, I quietly snuck around Gemma’s room gathering my clothes left strewn on the floor before ambling to the door. On the way, my eyes locked in on the keycard slipped in the electricity mechanism on the entranceway wall. I hesitated for only a moment before slipping it out of its spot and sliding it into my pocket.
Like I could feel any worse, the instant I stepped into the elevator, more guilt crashed into me hard and fast. The only difference that time around was it wasn’t solely from using Gemma for a night of forgetting. It was because I knew she would feel ashamed when calling the concierge desk for assistance. Gemma wore a brave front, but I saw the torment in her eyes during her exchange with the hotel clerk. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one treading into foreign waters last night.
I paced the corridor of Gemma’s hotel for nearly an hour while waiting for a sign of life to stream through the small crack underneath her door. The entire time, I racked my brain trying to think of a way we could both get out of this predicament unscathed. It was only when I saw a maid enter the room next to the elevator did an idea formulate in my weary mind.
For the next five minutes, I ignored the inquisitive stare of the hotel maid as I repetitively called the elevator car to the twenty-third floor. The instant I heard Gemma wrangling with the heavily weighted hotel room door, I slipped into the elevator and rode it down to the lobby. I knew the panel glass on the elevator wall wasn’t an ideal place to leave Gemma’s room key, but I figured it was better than her having to explain to the checkout clerk how she lost her key.
After pushing the twenty-third floor on the elevator dashboard, I slipped out of the elevator car and headed to my Camaro in the hotel parking lot. Gemma emerged onto the sidewalk not even five minutes later. She appeared in a hurry as she raced toward a SUV idling at the curb. Call me a sucker for punishment, but even with guilt bubbling my veins, I wanted one final chance of being seen as a normal man.
I glided my Camaro up the side of the SUV when it stopped at a red light. I stared at Gemma. She didn’t glance my way once. I thought the little knock my ego took from my intrusive glare going unnoticed would be the biggest hit I’d take this morning; it wasn’t. It was seeing shame wash over Gemma’s face as she sat in the back of the SUV looking dazed and confused. I don’t know why, but knowing she felt ashamed of what we had done cut me a little deeper than I’d like to admit.
The look on her face started a tidal wave of emotions to slam into me. With a vast array of feelings pummeling me senseless, I drove to the Marshall family home in autopilot mode.
At the start, I didn’t even second guess why I was attracting numerous glances when I entered the back patio. Since the day I buried Jorgie and Malcolm, that is all I seem to achieve. It was only when Ava offered to lend me some of Hugo’s clothes did I realize not all the glances were sympathy filled ones. Some were inquisitive stares. I turned up to brunch wearing the same suit I’d worn last night. If that wasn’t bad enough, my dress shirt was missing numerous buttons from where Gemma yanked it open.
Guilt unlike anything I’ve experienced the past five years crashed into me hard and fast when I used the joined bathroom between Jorgie and Hugo’s childhood bedroom to get changed. Jorgie’s childhood room is like a shrine to her life. Every detail of her short twenty-four years is displayed in her family bedroom. The pom-poms from when she was the head cheerleader in senior high. The map pinned to her wall where she circled the destinations around the world she wanted us to visit; and the veil she wore at our wedding added to my guilt. For every second I didn’t have her on my mind last night, an ounce was added to the weight I’ve been carrying on my chest the past five years.
Imagine how much that weight increased when I left Jorgie’s room and was confronted with the image of the lady who caused me to forget her. I know technically it isn’t Gemma’s fault I forgot Jorgie for even a second, but it was easier to blame her than face the truth. So that’s exactly what I did. While fighting the urge not to storm over and drag Gemma out of the chair Jorgie used to occupy, I issued her every belligerent, malicious, life-threatening stare I could. I was horrible, a man Jorgie would have been ashamed to know, if you could even call me a man.
When I confronted Gemma, it went nothing like I’d predicted. Just like last night, the instant she stared up at me, my past vanished. I knew every word spilling from her lips was a lie. Even with her eyes dampened with mistrust, they are truthful and honest. I didn’t mean to kiss her. I truly got caught up in the moment. The way she put me in my place without a single qualm made her one of the most intriguing women I’ve ever met. It thickened my blood with excitement and had me dying to prove her wrong. If I’m being honest, I also wanted to wash away the shame her eyes were still carrying, to show her that what we did was not something to be ashamed of. Not me and definitely not her.
Just like every other idiotic thought I’ve had the past twenty-four hours, I acted on them instead of evaluating them first. I should have known better. Acting on impulse is for fools. Although I
'm certain I won’t need to worry about my impulsive desires outweighing my shrewdness anymore. Ava may have acted unaffected when I stormed by her, but from the look of shock on her face, I know she either witnessed the exchange between Gemma or me, or read the guilt my eyes relayed. It will only be a matter of time before Gemma discovers my real identity. I know it shouldn’t bother me because technically I didn’t lie, but I hope she realizes that I didn’t tell her my name was Carey to deceive her; I just wanted to hold on to feeling like an unbroken man for a few more moments.
When I reach the top of the stairs, my eyes swing to the right before drifting to the left. With my attitude already teetering on the edge of a steep cliff, I head to the detached washroom at the end of the hall to throw some cold water on my face.
After drying my face with a towel, I grip the vanity and peer into the soulless eyes reflecting at me in the mirror. Just being in this house spears the truth into my chest. Jorgie isn’t coming back. Even in a house full of strangers, she had so much spirit, you couldn’t help but notice its absence.
Jorgie and I may have only had four years together, but I knew her better than anyone. So as much as it kills me to admit, I know she isn’t looking down on me consumed with jealousy. Jorgie didn’t have a jealous bone in her body. That neurosis solely belonged to me in our relationship.
We’d discussed the possibility of moving on if one of us passed many times in the weeks prior to my first stint in Iraq. Back then, I never put much thought into my replies, as I truly thought it would be Jorgie moving on, not me. I was in a war-torn country where soldiers lost their lives every day, so the idea of losing Jorgie and Malcolm was never something I fathomed.
I know deep down in my soul what Hugo said to me months ago is true. Jorgie would hate the way I’ve been living the past five years. She’s probably begging every day for me not to give up. But that is easier to say than do. No one can tell you how to handle grief. I’ve been living it for five years, and I wouldn’t have any advice to give a man who was about to enter the hell I live in every day. My ideas are simple. The fact blood is still pumping through my veins is classed as living to me. Anything above that is an achievement in itself.
After taking a few moments to ease the heaviness on my chest enough so I can secure half a breath, I exit the bathroom and trudge down the stairs. If there was a way I could leave this brunch without looking like a coward, I’d take it. But since I’d rather die like a man than live like a coward, I head back out onto the patio.
I don’t need to lift my gaze to know Gemma is aware of who I really am. Instead of the three dozen pairs of eyes glancing at me in remorse like they did the first half of brunch, I now have thirty-seven sets of sorrow-crammed eyes burning a hole in the side of my head.
Keeping my head low, I slip into my chair at the end of the table and push food around my plate with a fork.
Five minutes later, when I'm unable to leash my curiosity for a second longer, I lift my eyes from my plate of untouched food. People appear to be holding conversations around the table, but even with their sneaky glances concealed by thick lashes or wine glasses filled with mimosas, I can feel the heat of their gazes on me.
My brain screams for me not to, but I slowly drag my eyes along the table until I stop at a pair of pretty green eyes that are usually filled with mistrust. Just as I’d predicted, Gemma’s eyes are no longer brimming with mistrust. They are crammed with sympathy.
And just like that, her spell on me is broken.
Chapter 12
The smell of exhaust fumes and the hustle and bustle of city life grow with every mile my Uber driver travels. The closer I get to my apartment building, the more the pain in my chest subsides. There were times after my attack six years ago when I never felt content. I’ve never once had that feeling since I moved to New York. This city is my home. More so because of the man I live here with.
When the sedan idles at the curb of my apartment building, I step out and admire the tree-lined street that obscures the liveliness of an overly populated city mere blocks from here. It was the beauty of this building’s architectural design that first drew me to this area of New York. Then it was the convenience of having all my necessities within walking distance that made me fall in love. There is a Starbucks half a block down and a little cupcake store positioned right next door to it. If the winds blow in the right direction, I can stand out on my balcony and sniff in the calories I’m going to spend my day running off.
George, the doorman of my building, taps his top hat in greeting before opening the gold embossed door. “Welcome home, Ms. C— “
His greeting stops when my brow bows high into my hairline.
“Gemma,” he adds on.
“Thank you, George,” I reply before gliding into the foyer.
Just like every building in New York, the hum of chatter filters into the air as I span across the pristine marbled floors to the elevator banks at the back of the energy-filled space. An elevator attendant I haven’t met before requests the car to the foyer when he notices me approaching. I smile a greeting before dropping my eyes to the gold name badge pinned to his chest indicating his name is Jeremy.
“Do you mind if I ride this one alone?” I request to Jeremy. Nothing against him, but considering he is under the age of thirty and he has his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat, I don’t feel comfortable getting in a small four by four box with him alone.
Guilt clutches my heart when Jeremy cranks his neck to the desk in the middle of the foyer before turning his gaze back to me. “I really can’t afford to lose my job Ms. . .”
“Gemma,” I fill in, inwardly cringing when my voice comes out with a quiver.
I can tell by his scruffy shoes and the way his hair is greasy at the ends that Jeremy really needs this job, but with a broad range of emotions hammering into me from my heart-strangling confrontation with Carey at brunch, I can’t stomach the idea of entering a small space with him alone.
Before Jeremy has the chance to reply, the elevator doors swing open, and a deep, profound voice says, “Get your ass into the elevator, Lil Lady.”
Jeremy jumps when an excited squeal ripples through my lips. “You’re home early,” I shriek before launching into the elevator car and throwing my arms around Wesley’s neck. “You have no idea how much I was praying you were home.”
“I might go to San Fran more often if this is how I'm going to get greeted upon return,” Wesley mutters into my ear while returning my embrace.
As Wesley, Jeremy and I ride the elevator to the 33rd floor, I scan my eyes over my very best friend in the world. Wesley is leanly built with a smattering of muscles in all the right locations. He stands a little shy of six feet-tall, has blue eyes, and dark, delicious skin. The sprouts of hair on the top of his head are a little fuzzy from the stifling humidity swamping us, but the Boston Red Sox cap he is wearing backwards as he vainly clutches onto his dwindling youth conceals his indecision about growing out his afro. Wesley is insanely gorgeous. If he weren’t my best friend, I’d have a hard time keeping my hands to myself.
Don’t get me wrong, Wesley and I came very close to crossing the friendship line New Year’s Eve three years ago. It was only after we started mauling each other did we realize what our joint therapist told us was true. We had an addiction to sex. Wesley’s self-medicating habits switched from drug abuse to sex. His addiction was strongly based on confusion surrounding his sexual orientation. Mine was solely focused on convincing myself that I didn’t lose any control from my attack. During sexual activities, I felt more empowered, but it was extremely short-lived. More times than not, I was left feeling more powerless after sex than before.
When the elevator car arrives at our floor, I loop my arm around the nook of Wesley’s elbow and amble to our apartment.
“How did you know I was home?” I ask Wesley when he swings open our apartment door and gestures for me to enter.
After dumping my suitcase next to the entranceway table, I p
ivot on my heels to face Wesley. “George buzzed to say you had arrived. Jeremy only started his shift an hour ago and figured you’d be a little freaked if you had to ride alone with him,” he reveals.
My heart swells. This type of attentiveness is nothing new for Wesley. He is my crutch in life. As I am his.
Wesley throws a set of keys into a crystal bowl by the door. “If I could get a peek at him out of that ghastly elevator get-up, I think Jeremy could become a good friend of mine,” he jests with a waggle of his brows.
I roll my eyes before pacing into our living room. “What happened to the girl who works at that Italian restaurant we get our ‘Oh Wesley’ discounts from?” I query. I overemphasize the “Oh Wesley” part of my sentence in a long, breathy moan.
Wesley has been driving his headboard into his bedroom wall the past four weeks with a pretty redhead from a restaurant a few blocks over. I’ve never seen Wesley in an actual relationship the past three years, but things seemed to be getting serious between them. Especially considering she spends more time in my apartment than I do.
My nose screws up when I fail to recall her name. Because of our revolving door meet and greets, I never received a proper introduction. And although this is selfish of me to say, when I'm with Wesley, I want his sole devotion, so I never thought to ask the name of his latest bed companion. Although Wesley admits he is a sex addict, he hasn’t fully come to terms with the repercussions associated with the title. He has reined in his sexual conquests compared to the number it was three years ago, but he still has a lot of steps to work through.